


Just Stop Talking, Neal!

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Early White Collar fiction, Erotic thoughts, M/M, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29069547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: Neal does tend to chatter a lot, and Peter sometimes thinks that may be his way of disarming or distracting a mark during a con. His new handler is determined that he’s not going to allow himself to fall into that trap because he’s smarter than his young CI. But Neal has other tools in his belt that are more subtle and dangerous. For EustasiaVye13, as per her suggestion.
Relationships: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Just Stop Talking, Neal!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EustasiaVye13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EustasiaVye13/gifts).



“You activated your tracker!” Peter growled as gruffly as he could to the handsome young criminal seated on his couch wearing a sleek black turtleneck. The new piece of technology on Caffrey’s ankle was supposed to be as sacrosanct as a wedding ring with its accompanying vows of fidelity. At least, that was Peter’s mindset, but all bets were off when it came to a slick paroled felon. Peter allowed himself to relax a little as he caught his wife’s comical smirk. Look on the bright side, Peter told himself. At least his recently acquired albatross was here instead of running the first chance he got.

“I cabbed it over here to your house because I needed to talk to you,” the kid with the startling blue eyes smiled beguilingly, as if that made all the sense in the world.

“And now you’re petting my dog!” a perturbed handler added. Thank the Lord Peter had bitten his tongue before saying “canoodling,” which would have made him sound like a prissy anachronism. Peter knew he had to get it together in this battle of wills with a slippery past adversary who was supposed to be an asset. He couldn’t allow his new responsibility to get the upper hand.

When a flustered handler refocused, Caffrey was off on a tangent about initials on a Spanish Victory bond, and he continued insisting—well, strongly urging—Peter in an arcane direction. A seasoned FBI Agent thought that maybe if he pandered to Caffrey’s delusion, the guy might shut up for a bit and they could do a proper investigation in the White Collar office. That was an environment Peter could control.

But that didn’t happen because the patter continued in a Catholic church as the two new partners studied a painting being restored in the nave by someone named Curtis Hagen. Peter stood there helplessly in his drab tan raincoat as Neal lifted a leg and straddled the wooden sacristy railing to get a better look. Thanks to tight pants, that move only served to outline a firm, well-contoured butt. Peter tried not to gawk, and quickly followed in Neal’s wake to avoid being labeled a voyeur. That put him squarely in Neal’s personal space and getting a whiff of some kind of musky aftershave. Elizabeth would later inform her husband that it was patchouli oil, but to Peter, it might as well have been an alluring aphrodisiac. 

The argumentative patter continued as Neal pointed out what he was sure were the initials, _C H_ , but Peter wasn’t quite sold. “Look closer,” Neal prodded. “That’s a _C_ and an _H_.”

“Maybe,” was all Peter could bring himself to mumble as he leaned in awkwardly while feeling a verboten part of his anatomy threaten to come to life. Thanks to a hovering parish priest, who boldly admonished a mortified man about sins of the flesh, a conflicted FBI agent now felt transparent and guilty. He had to get himself together and think “criminal” not “carnal” thoughts.

Neal continued to be quite chatty in the car, going on and on about religious iconography during the Middle Ages right through the Renaissance. It was obvious the alleged young forger was intellectually brilliant, and, God help him, Peter really liked smart. Yep, the floundering man knew he had a type—dark hair, blue eyes, long legs, and big brains. Caffrey was the whole damn package. How was Peter going to get through the next four years with his dignity intact?

Not surprisingly, Peter dreams were on the lusty side that night, but they were rudely interrupted before sunup the next morning when he got an alert from the Marshals.

“He ran!” he told his wife in exasperation, now feeling foolish about his ludicrous pipedreams. So maybe it was preordained that Peter would run after him yet again, put him back in prison, and that would right the real world on its axis. Instead, things took a sharp left turn, not exactly unfolding as expected.

“You know, I should arrest you for smoking contraband,” Peter made a lame attempt at a joke about Cuban cigars as he rubbed shoulders with Neal in what was a rather intimate moment.

Of course, Neal just smiled that dangerous smile and started rambling about the different kinds of tobacco leaves, their properties, and the proper way to roll and smoke an expensive panatela or corona. When he continued by extolling his past trip to Havana, Peter grabbed him by the shoulders and shushed him with a pair of hungry lips. After the two men came up for air, a wide-eyed Neal opened his mouth to say something, but Peter held up a hand.

“Just stop talking, Neal!” he ordered before his mouth found its target again.


End file.
